A Harlequin Romance
by katiaroza
Summary: Harleen Quinzel had everything she’d ever wanted. So why give it up? Love knows no bounds and Joker is quick to take advantage of this. JokerxHarley
1. Prologue

_- -This is what happens when I go see the Dark Knight, fall completely and totally in love with Heath Ledger's performance of the Joker - who is already a huge love interest of mine - and then my friend decides to remind me of Miss Harley Quinn. This is pretty much just my take on what happened with her and what she would be like in this particular Batman universe, and what future movies could have possibly been like. I'm trying to stay true to both characters, while trying to take Harley's past the cartoon. Forgive any fuck-ups please. Writing criminally insane psycopaths is totally fun, but unbelievably challenging at the same time. I've never attempted anything like this before, so . . . yikes!_

_**.warnings. **everything. violence, murder, language, torture, rape, abuse, sexual situations, and anything else that is needed for a good psyco story. _

_**.disclaimers. **hey! no OC's for once! Orginal concepts belong to DC and their respective writters. However, this is straight out of Christopher Nolan's universe._

* * *

**A Harlequin Romance**

**_- Prologue -_**

She was a fool. She never should have told him that lie. That awful, disgusting lie. It seemed like the only path she could really take at the time; if she were ever to learn the real truth behind all that he'd ever said and done. It was pride that had done it to her, a desperate pride that she could not seem to barricade from entering her heart and soul, no matter how hard she tried.

All she wanted to know was how far this man's mind could be pushed before beginning to unravel, a harmless game, where she'd no doubt be punished for it later, but not as greatly as she would be rewarded. She had pushed too far, pushed him over the edge into unbound insanity, and now the punishment was almost too much for her to bear. The one and only man she claimed to love – this sweet, loving person – had been mutilated into something so horrendous . . . And it was all her fault.

So she ran. To save him. To salvage him. To help him in whatever way she could, and hopefully begin to rectify all of her latest mistakes.

The burning in legs only intensified as she ran, her body cruelly testing her mental limits, even though she knew that she could not stop, not for the world. It was only fair, she had made him suffer with her foolish experiments, and now some strange karma was doing the same to her. She tried to ignore it, she tried to push further, tried to find him. She didn't even know where he was, or what he would do. He had simply run out his apartment door shortly after producing a pistol from one of his drawers, proclaiming that he would set everything right for her, and that she needn't worry about a thing. He was clearly not in his right mind while he was saying that, it would have been obvious to her even if she hadn't been a psychology major.

Guy Kopski was perfection in her mind. Of course, he had his flaws, but who didn't? They had met in their sophomore year at Gotham University, shortly after she had decided to pursue her studies in human psychology. Many of their classes were the same, and often they would make small talk, flirt a little, and then go their separate ways. It wasn't until they had worked on a thesis together, that they began dating. Their minds had worked so beautifully together; they had thought so alike, and yet so differently at the same time. Together, they had developed some of the best ideas of their year.

As a couple, they were everything that everyone else wanted to be. Happy, romantic, joyful, and completely in love. There were, of course, their small little arguments, as any other couple had. However, because of their intense understanding of human nature as well as each other, these small conflicts were often quickly resolved. She remained in her dorm room, the same as any other good little university girl, sometimes visiting him at his apartment for a few hours, or even a few nights.

The months passed, and so did their education. She so desperately wanted to accepted into Gotham U's Graduate program, but it was a highly competitive goal; one of which every other psychology major – including Guy – wanted to be accepted into. It was blatantly obvious that she would have to come up with some profound idea to be distinguished from all the rest. So, once again, she turned to Guy, seeking his help once more.

That was when the lie came. If he had loved so much, as much as he said he did, then it would not have mattered in the slightest, and if it really did matter for whatever reason, then her experiment would have turned out to be more interesting that she likely could have anticipated.

It also had come down to her own personal interests that this experiment was so crucial, although she would never allow herself to admit to such a thing. He was so perfect, in her mind, and she was so not perfect. It was incredible to her that he would even waste a single moment on her, when he – with his incredible looks – could have had any girl he wanted at Gotham State. Why he chose her was suspicious in its own right, and she wanted to make sure that his words and actions were genuine.

If he did love her, then he wouldn't care that she had lied to him, when he found out. If he loved her, then it wouldn't matter to him that she had said that she had committed a crime. It would not matter that she had supposedly almost taken someone's life, it wouldn't matter that she had stolen and vandalized and set fire to an entire building. And above all, it _would_ matter that she had almost died in the process of it all, that someone had almost taken her life in return. He would be shocked, reasonably, he would be angry at first, but then that would dissipate, and he would love her again. He would cry with her, and hold her, and tell her that everything would be alright, that it didn't matter that she was a criminal, that he would still always love her. And when she would tell him that it was a lie, and none of that had happened, that she only needed to judge his reaction, then he would be upset again, but he would still love her. He would not speak to her for a day or more, but he would still love her, and he would break, and call her and come to her and hold her, telling her that he loved her, and that he understood and that it would still be alright.

That was what was supposed to happen, and it was also what did not happen. Instead, when she had told him these things, he had stopped, his eyes had suddenly become glazed over, and they had both stood there for what must have been hours, unmoving, she staring at him, and he, staring at nothing. She was certain that in that time frame, she had seen his mind begin to unravel, the barriers between reality and imaginary crumble, and his consciousness break.

Without warning, he started laughing, right there in the small kitchen of his modest apartment. A shrill, maniacal laugh, not at all like the one she so desired to hear from him. He rambled, telling her in short snippets of words that nothing bad was going to come of this situation, that he would make everything right again. He mentioned how it was in his fault anyway, that she had acted out of such desperation, instead of going to him, like she should have if he had been there properly from the beginning. It must have been his fault, because she was such a good person to have gone so wrong.

The gun had been hidden in one of the smaller drawers where a person would not normally go. He held it in his hand to make sure that it was loaded, and she was almost sure that he was going to turn it on her. Instead, he showed it to her, showed her that it was loaded, and then promised again to make everything right. Nothing bad would come of what she had done, no one but him would ever know of what she had done, and that the man who had almost killed her would be brought to justice.

She had been brought to such a complete shock, that she didn't even think to tell him then that it was all a lie. She hadn't thought to try and stop him at first. She only sat there, in his apartment, as she watched him rush out the door, not even bothering to close it behind him. She closed it for him, and then stood there, barefoot, on the cold linoleum floor of the kitchen, as her mind struggled to grasp at what had happened.

A sudden panic had then exploded in her chest, and she made no hesitation to rush out the door after him. Though she did not know where he could have gone, or what he was currently capable of, she knew that she had to find him, and tell him the truth, before something even worse happened. It never crossed her mind where she was going, even though her legs pumped down relentlessly onto the cold, dark pavement, urging her forward in her hectic chase.

She was hardly surprised when she noticed that her chase had led her to run down part of the city, where most of the buildings were either demolished, or condemned to meet the same fate shortly. A charred structure soon came into sight, one that had been on the news this morning. An old bank, apparently, which police had thought that desolate teenagers had set blaze to in their boredom. It was the building in which she had earlier used as the setting for her elaborate story. A strong feeling in her gut told her that this is where she would find her beloved Guy.

She stopped on the block across from the boarded entrance to catch her breath. She was scared to move any closer. She didn't want to know what she would find in there. One of the doors had been forced open slightly, and she instantly knew that her gut had guided her accurately.

Her footsteps echoed loudly when she stepped onto the stone stairs leading up to the once grand, oaken doors, resonating deeply off the walls of the surrounding buildings. The gap provided in the door was more than enough for her to fit her slim form through. There was little, if any, light coming through into the abandoned building, and she had to stop for a moment to let her eyes adjust slightly.

The large foyer now laid in shambles, the rafters collapsing in, mortar, bricks and plaster lying in piles all around her. She cautiously moved forward, foolishly unafraid of falling through the creaking floor.

"Guy . . . ?" she called out for him weakly, most of her hoping that he was not, in fact, present. She called out a little louder. "Guy?"

She found him passed the first wall, and she stopped dead when he came into her sight. He was simply standing there, his arms and head limp. She tried not to notice the pistol he still brandished in his right hand. His hair hung lamely from his head, clearly damp from the humidity and his own perspiration, the same as his t-shirt.

"Guy . . ." She barely made a noise at all.

He turned to her then, and she saw the craziness in his eye. The break that she had so unnecessarily caused. The smile on his lips was misplaced, and the bags under his eyes were so unlike him. His stance and expression unnerved her. This was so much worse than anything she could have ever forseen.

"I did it, Harleen," the voice was recognizably his, but just barely. There was something so utterly changed about it, like some foreign part of his mind had suddenly decided to show up. The sound forced a shiver down her spine. "I took care of it . . . Just like I promised."

She shook her head, trembling in fright as she did so. "Wh-what . . .? Guy, what are you . . .?"

She then spotted it, what he was standing over, subconsciously pointing at with the small gun. A man's corpse, at his feet, the gunshot wound in both his stomach and where his heart would be. He was homeless, dressed in tattered and layered clothing, trying to seek shelter from the elements in this abandoned building, on a simple piece of cardboard.

Harleen screamed then. She couldn't help it.

An innocent man lay dead at her beloved's feet, by his own doing. In any clear reality, it was only her fault, really. Her experiment, her story, her fucking lie! She desperately hoped at this moment, that the man had, in any life, been a real crook. That he had murdered someone, raped someone, even petty thievery. She irrationally begged in her mind that this man be guilty of something, if only it hadn't been that Guy had killed a completely innocent man.

"What's wrong, sweet? He tried to kill you." Guy said this with a hint of demented glee in his voice, "I took care of it. It's alright now. No one's gonna know what you did, and the scum that almost stole you from me is gone. We can move on from this, just as we were before this all interrupted our lives."

He held out his arms and took a step towards her when she only continued to stare down at the dead man in horror. She instantly jumped back, not wanting to taint her beloved any more than she already had. She was afraid of what he had done, afraid of what she had made him do. Her horror was more directed at herself than at him.

She jumped when she felt her back hit the wall. He stepped still toward her, wanting to wrap her in his warm and firm embrace. She couldn't let him, she didn't deserve it. She began shaking her head, jerkily, as her eyes darted frantically from Guy to the poor homeless man who lay dead on the floor.

"No . . . Guy, no . . ." she moaned weakly, "It never happened." Her confession came out from the pure horror of the situation. "He . . .never hurt me . . .no one did . . . I never stole. . .Nothing ever happened . . ." She choked back a sob as she finally realized that tears were streaming steadily down her face. "None of it happened . . . It was all a lie."

The cry of anguish that ripped from his throat was an unearthly cry, tearing a hole through her very soul. It weakened her knees, made her collapse to the floor, made her breath stop . . .

"It . . . never . . . happened. . . ." he repeated weakly, as if the concept were to much for him to handle, "It . . .never . . . . WHAT HAVE I DONE?!" His hands flew up into his hair in his sorrow, and the madness in his eye increased tenfold. "I KILLED HIM! INNOCENT! I FUCKING KILLED HIM!"

Harleen could not have brought herself to stop his screaming if she wanted to. She stayed where she was, pathetically on the floor, trying her best to keep herself as numb and detached as she could. It no longer mattered that a man lay dead on the ground, that her boyfriend was experiencing unbelievable pain. No, none of it mattered. Not enough for her to comfort him, not enough for her to leave, not even enough for her to even move . . .

Guy's screaming suddenly stopped, and she looked up to see him collapse to his knees, his torso hanging limp, head hanging in despair. He brought his gaze up to meet hers. "Harleen . . . . why . . . .?"

She took in a sob, the pain of what she had done momentarily getting to her. "I needed to know . . . ."

He took the answer as if it had physically stuck him. His arms moved twitchily, the pistol clacking lazily against the stone floor. His head shook weakly as the crippling reality of the entire situation suddenly suck deep into his soul. He looked up at her once more, the insanity finally cleansed from his eyes. He was in control once more, but that light spark was no longer present either. It was pure despair now.

"I'm sorry, Harleen . . ." he uttered the sentiment so lightly, she wasn't even sure if she had heard correctly.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, shaking her head weakly. "No, no, no . . . It's not. . . "

"No," he interrupted her, "No . . ."

Her eyes were only open in time for her to see him stick the end of the pistol up into his mouth. The panic once again ripped through her chest, just as before, but disappeared just as fleetingly as the gunshot rang throughout the room.

* * *

_Hope you liked it. More to come soon, I'm on a bit of a role here._

_- k a t_


	2. Chapter One

__

- - I really haven't read a lot of Batman comics, so please bear with me. I'm just trying to take the concepts of these amazing charcters and turn them into what Nolan did. Harley, I think, would have been really cool to see in a future movie, but I'm just gonna have to do with this. Oh well. I'm still stoked from the movie, and I think I've seen it a total of 3 times since its come into theaters, which is a lot by my standards, seeing as I simply wait for most movies to come out onto DVD. I have a big TV haha. Anyway, just as a warning, this is soon to get really dark, and I think I already know how its gonna end, so keep reading. I was disappointed when I saw how light the movie was compared to my expectation, but what do you expect for PG? I'm rectifying that here.

_**.warning. **Same as before. This chapter isn't anything too bad I don't think, just language and overall dark angstyness. Oh and mild sexual situation at the end, but hell . . ._

_**.disclaimer.** I own NOTHING. It's all like DC and Nolan and all the misc. writters over the years._

* * *

**A Harleguin Romance**

**_- Chapter One -_**

**_-_**

**Three Months Later**

It wasn't as if she hadn't thought about it before, but this time, it was different somehow. She could feel it, like some sort of shift in the weather, though, the situation itself wasn't being too subtle. He had specifically called her to his office, to talk to her about the paper she had written. She knew all too well what that was going to entail.

What had happened to her, three months ago, was no secret on campus. Many people knew about it, and almost everyone in the psychology department did. In fact, much of Gotham had been privy to the events in one way or another, when it had dominated news lines for a week straight. Everywhere she went, she still received stares and pitying comments, the latter – thankfully – coming at a steady decline. No one was intent on forgetting how she had so foolishly turned her life into a tragedy.

Harleen, on the other hand, was intent on getting over it as soon as she possibly could. The paper that was now currently her topic of interest, had been written and submitted within a week of the events she had so carelessly set into motion. She wanted the emotion and results fresh in her writing, though. She really had no choice but to brush aside her personal feelings over the matter in order to get some real work done. Enough had been enough in ruining lives, she now had to have something to show for it all, or else it would have just been a senseless waste.

The events of that night – so freshly stuck in her mind – had failed to change her. She wouldn't let them. It would have been downright silly to hand on it for so long. She needed to find a brighter side to life, and the only way she could begin to do this, was to finish what she had been so intent on accomplishing in the first place. Now, she had a celebrated paper, and a confirmed spot in Gotham State University's Graduate program. It was nothing to sneeze at, that was for damned sure, but everyone around her seemed bound and determined to drag her back and keep her tied up with everything that had happened with Guy.

She wouldn't let them do that to her, she wouldn't. She was determined now, focused, and for once, people were going to begin taking her seriously. They would actually listen to her instead of treat her as some sort of novelty, as they had her entire life.

Reed Dover was a man who had always taken her seriously. Her psyc professor had always been there for her, and genuinely listened to her when no one else would take the time of day out for her in depth ideals. Even in the beginning, when she had first entered his major, he didn't look down on her, he didn't speak to her like a child, he never once made her feel inferior, and that was what gained her trust in him the most. A man, hardly out of his fifties, he knew what it was like to be the perceived youngling amongst peers. For that, she respected him, and for that, she knew that he respected her.

It didn't matter in the slightest as to why he now, so suddenly, had chosen to call on her, to meet him. The receptionist had said that he wanted to speak to her about her paper. The thesis that she had formed based off of Guy's reaction to her lie, the one based off of his unfortunate demise.

Like everyone else, Reed White had initially been shocked at hearing how the lives of one of his most accomplished pupils had so suddenly come to and end. Reed White, however, was also the only other person who knew the true circumstances behind Guy Kopski's death. To the general public, his death had been a result of simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Harleen had even told the authorities that the homeless man had attacked them, and, in defence, Guy had shot him, before turning the gun on himself in such despair. It was a feasible enough truth. The police had believed her, and so had everyone else. Reed White even had, until she turned in her paper.

The following day, she had been forced to admit the truth to him, only hoping that he would help her keep it hidden and out of sight. His reaction had not at all been what she expected it to be. He listened to her story, entirely and thoroughly, every last detail. He did not interrupt her once, and remained sitting at his desk, calmly, while he studied her words through his half-moon bifocals. Even when she had finished, and was near tears, he still remained calm. He didn't yell, nor scream, he didn't even pick up the phone to call the cops. Instead, he smiled. Warm and serene, she calmed down immediately, and didn't even hesitate to contemplate his reaction.

He told her about how he understood that she did what she had to do. It was a perfectly feasible experiment, one that had accurately examined the human psyche under the most extreme of conditions. It was not her fault that the experiment had failed and took a turn for the worst. She only acted as a passionate psychologist would have. However, it still would have been best to keep this sort of information between them only . . . for her reputation's sake.

She wasn't even worried now, as her feet carried her down the nearly deserted hall to his office. He knew everything that happened, nothing but good could now come of the paper. All her hard work was going to pay off, the moment she had been waiting for, for so long.

Harleen stopped suddenly, the sound of her heels hitting the floor stopping with her. A sly grin graced her lips as she brought her hands up to the collar of her blouse. She deftly undid the top three buttons of the lavender garment, and shifted it so just barely could one see the beginnings of her cleavage. She respected Reed White, oh yes, but he was still a man, and men were oh so easy to manipulate with only the simplest of means.

The remaining distance to his office was covered in less than a minute. She knocked on the door under the plaques bearing his title and name, not waiting for a response before letting herself in.

"Good afternoon, Dr. White," she greeted him in a cheery voice. It was a voice that was too cheery, even for herself. The pitch and tone both disgusted her, but it was necessary to keep the facade going, lest the past three months catch up with her, "You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes, Miss Quinzel," he responded almost immediately, laying a file down on his desk, "I was hoping you'd be so kind as to join us."

Harleen stopped short when she saw Reed White's other guest. This, she had not been expecting. The guest, in question, she had been expecting even less.

Seated in one of the two chairs set before Dr. White's desk, was a man, no more than forty years of age, dressed smartly in a light blue collared shirt, and a pair of beige trousers, with a jacket to match. She gazed at the large identification tag on his suit as she took the chair beside him. Dr. Scott Miller, Arkham Psychiatric Facility.

A small panic rose in her chest, and she fought to keep it down. There was no reason that she could think of for a man like him to be here . . . unless . . . No! There was no way that Dr. White would betray her like this! There was just no way!

"Uh . . .Hello," she greeted this new Dr. Miller hesitantly.

He gave her a warm smile in return. Too warm . . . "Hello, Miss Qunizel, it's nice to finally meet you," he said, surprising her when he used her name, "I'm Doctor Miller, from Arkham Asylum."

Harleen nodded guardedly, shaking his hand when he offered it to her. She turned to her gaze then to Dr. White, making him shift ever so slightly from the intensity of her gaze.

Reed White cleared his throat as he sat up in his large chair. "Oh, please forgive me, Harleen, I've forgotten to tell you I was inviting a friend over today," he almost sounded sincere in his apology. She had grown to tell the difference. "Scott here is one of my friends in the field, and as he just said, he is from Arkham's Psychiatric department."

Again, Harleen nodded, still unsure of the situation. The panic that had risen in her chest seemed determined to come to the top, but she refused to let it. There was too much at stake right now. If Reed White really had betrayed her situation, then she did not want to give them any reason to want to take and lock her away.

Clearing his throat again, Dr. White continued on. "I've taken the liberty of showing Scott your paper, Harleen, I hope you don't mind," – she shook her head, her heart sinking ever lower – "And he has expressed to me that he is quite . . .surprised by it."

Harleen's heart was pounding, she then noticed. She sat in her chair, stock-still, trying desperately to keep her breathing straight.

Scott Miller cleared his throat and she turned to him.

"Yes, well, Dr White is quite correct," he explained, "I was surprised by your work, Miss Quinzel. Surprised, and impressed."

Her demeanour lightened immensely at his words. The panic that had been threatening her for the past few minutes suddenly dissipated. She became more alert to his words, to his actions, his sentiments.

"Congratulations, Harleen," Reed White boomed happily, rising from his seat.

Harleen turned back to the visiting doctor, with wide eyes and the first genuine smile she'd held in weeks.

"Miss Quinzel," Scott Miller said with a smile on his face and in his voice, "Arkham Asylum Psychiatric Facility is happy to tell you that you have just received a full internship for the coming year."

* * *

Things were finally being set into motion. They were finally turning out for the better. And they were most definitely turning out to her advantage. It was just the way that it was supposed to be. And for that, she was grateful and she was glad.

They would all finally see her as somebody, a real somebody. Not just some pretty dame who could pull a few cartwheels. She had been so excited, all those years back, when she had received her acceptance into Gotham State University. High school had been setback after setback for her, as the only thing that – guys at least – ever wanted, was to tap that little blondie.

The scholarship that had gotten her in, however, is what had brought everything back to where it had unfortunately started. The gymnastic skills that had more or less written out her entire life were also what had spelled out utter indignation for her. Even though she had been chosen to attend the prestigious Gotham State, it was still only as 'the hot little gymnast babe'. No one took her seriously, if anything, it became worse.

Thankfully, the scholarship requirements dictated that she also chose something else to specialize in. This was when she turned to the psychology department. Gotham State's psychology program was probably the best in the country, and one of the best in the entire world. It was an unfortunate and irrelevant face – to her at least – that this was likely due to high percentage of Gotham's criminally insane. However, it seemed the perfect thing to turn to. Upon her acceptance, her peers began seeing her with a new light . . . a more in-depth light.

Getting in was a simple thing. Some people were just so easy to convince, that it was really was embarrassing. For both her and them. The head of Gotham State's psyc. department was a fool of an old man. He was nothing like Dr. White was. Convincing him to let her into that major took next to no effort on her part. She'd heard stories of other girls who'd had to sleep with their heads of departments to get in, but Harleen barely had to bat and eyelash. Men were so easily played with.

* * *

"HARLEE-EEN!!"

She laid down her text book, gazing up at her dorm room door, jumping when the pounding came next.

"HARLEEN!"

The voice on the other side was getting angry now, but it was nothing to worry about. She knew that voice. Sighing briefly, she laboriously pulled herself up from her luscious pillow-chair, and opened the door to let her friend in.

She raised an eyebrow at Kathryn Lee, the friend with whom they'd managed to hold on to each other since elementary school.

"Guess whaaat, Kathryn . . . " Harleen teased her with a sing-song voice.

The other girl's eyes widened with anticipation as they both took a seat on her bed. "What?"

"I got the gig!" the blonde yelped excitedly, throwing her arms in the air. She might have gotten up and bounded across the room with a cartwheel or flip, but the lack of space dictated against such an action.

Kathryn gasped with glee, covering her mouth with her hands before the two girls continued to giggle together.

"That's perfect then," the pretty little brunette told her with sparkling eyes.

"What is?"

"We can go and celebrate tonight." Kathryn appropriately paused. "Tyler's frat is having a huge party later, and it is sans invitation.

Harleen smiled. "I'm in."

"I knew that already."

She started laughing, as the two normally would have, but stopped when she realized that Kathryn had failed to join her in the merriment. She gazed over to her friend, only to find her fixated on something within the vicinity of her night table.

"What is it Kath?" Harleen question, not as much worried as she was just curious.

She watched as the brunette reached past her and pulled the morning's newspaper between them. "Wow, looks like they've caught that psyco again." Kathryn said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Thank god."

Harleen grabbed the newspaper from her friend, stopping short, having failed to earlier notice the face that graced the morning's papers. Staring up at the pair, through the black-and-white, behind the blacked out eye sockets and painted on saccharine smile, was the haunting face of Gotham's own notorious Joker. "He's going back to Arkham. . ."

"Jesus," Kathryn swore, her voice now saturated with anger and disbelief, "I don't actually understand why they don't just put guys like him in the chair instead of trying to keep them locked up. It's no less than what they all deserve, and they always keep escaping anyway! They're all crazy anyway. It's not like anyone would miss them."

Harleen looked up at her best friend, knowing where she was coming from, but knowing better at the same time. "Exactly. He's insane. They can't execute the insane. It's against state law."

"Yeah, well, its a stupid law . . ." Kathryn grumbled.

Harleen's blue eyes – ignoring her friend's ramblings – gravitated once more down to the paper, sitting so listlessly on her bed's comforter. The face that stared back up at her, so twisted, so feral, so incredibly . . .luring. The worst of Arkham's inmates, supposedly. What an accomplishment it would be for any psychologist to unravel a mind of that calibre, open it up and see what makes it tick. Just imagine the endorsements she would receive if she could come back from her internship, having successfully completing a psychiatric evaluation on the Joker himself.

It was clear then, to her, what Harleen Quinzel would have to do to accomplish everything she had ever wanted.

* * *

The music didn't even matter anymore. It was complete crap, but it really didn't matter. She was just there to have a good time, and, in many senses, she was. She knew almost no one there, at this ridiculous frat party, but they were having a good time too, just like her, so that made them all friends, right?

She and Kathryn had arrived at the party together, it was her boyfriend's house after all. Not even an hour had passed before the pair had separated, and uncaringly went on to interact with other people until they should drunkenly run into each other again. It's how these things went; Harleen was certainly no stranger to it all.

Drinks kept coming at her, from . . . she didn't even know where. She took them without question, and she had lost count of how many she'd chugged down her system ages ago.

The living room was crowded. Almost all the seats were taken. She couldn't even move across the floor with any real progress, as that was where the majority of the party's guests currently were, writhing in a mass of sensual drunkenness.

She stumbled then, trying to push past someone who looked a little familiar, but nothing affirmative. She landed, not too hard, and was comfortably greeted by something warm. Looking up, she saw TJ, a guy she knew back in high school. His surname was pretty much unimportant and irrelevant. He smiled back at her when he saw her. They didn't bother speaking; it was too loud.

When his lips came down over hers, she wasn't appalled as she probably should have been. She wasn't anything, really. She kissed him back, though, just to be nice. From what she could remember – which wasn't a lot at the moment – he was a pretty nice guy, and no reason to punish a nice guy with being so rude.

His arms came to wrap around her torso, and she shifted her weight to sit more comfortably in his lap. She felt his tongue come into her mouth, and she let hers travel as well. He was alright, even if they were both drunk, and she pressed up against him eagerly. However, something still prodded at her in the back of her mind.

There was no way he could ever compare to her Guy. He would be disgusted at her right now, chowing down on some guy she barely even knew; it was a wonder as to what the man had even seen in her in the first place. No wonder he had reacted the way he had when she told him, she was such a horrible person, he had no choice but to react that way.

Harleen would have been horrified at her revelation if she hadn't been so drunk. Gingerly, she pulled away from TJ and his hyper-active libido. She drunkenly climbed back to her feet and, stumbling, she moved on.

* * *

_- - I think my writting went completely out the window there for a bit. And, I did make up the names . . . in like 2 seconds. I'm sorry about the lack of quality here, I'm just excited to get to the next chapter!_

_- k a t_


	3. Chapter Two

_- - Alright, so, I'm really happy for all the support I'm getting, and I'm just as excited about this fic as everyone else it. However, having said that, please don't expect updates as soon as they are coming right now. I'm really on a role, right now, but I'm not sure how long this is going to last. I'm bound to lose momentum, and hoping it won't be soon, but I'm pretty sure its going to happen. I'm sorry, but its true. Oh yes, and I do know that I'm making a lot of this up, and a lot of it, I'm sticking true to the canon. I'm going to end up omitting a lot of canon in the future, simply because I don't want this to end up being like three hundred chapters long. I'm sure everyone agrees with me. I have a relatively clear vision for this fic, and I'm focused for now. It WILL be finished._

_**.warnings.** Oo, yummy. Well, seeing as a certain beloved psycopath will be gracing us with his presence today, its gonna be dark. Well, maybe not too dark, but dark. _

_**.disclaimers. **Are you kidding, I don't own Batman! Or the Joker! DC, like always. Nolan's universe. _

* * *

**A Harlequin Romance**

**Chapter Two**

The Narrows was a place she'd never been before, forget being there alone. The cab driver had even refused to take her further beyond the region's boundary. She could now see why.

The streets looked abandoned, but she knew that they weren't. People scurried around like rats down here, and rats strolled out in plain day light. She almost retched every time one came near her, or even brushed up against her foot, but the sinking fear in the pit of her stomach prevented such an action. Even though she anxiously gripped the small, hand-held pepper spray bottle in her jacket pocket, she knew she still wasn't safe. Never had she used the device on an offender, and she never hoped to have to. A shudder ran through her spine when she walked past - yet again – another partially boarded up window, only to hear someone rush back in and attempt to avoid being seen.

She quickened her paces, ignoring the trash that covered the sidewalks. As frightened and disturbed as she already was, she couldn't help but think of how these streets must transform at night. There were signs of living – disturbing, but noticeable signs – and it only proved to strengthen her growing paranoia. The privileged life that she had been raised with, had never prepared her for a setting such as this. Of course, she knew that such disparity existed, but to see it for herself was a shock nonetheless. And that was omitting the very real fear of danger lurking in the recesses of her heart; she knew that at any minute, she could come face to face with a very less that desirable fate.

It seemed a foolish thing to her now, to want an internship at Arkham so bad, but she knew she couldn't give up yet. And – according to the address – she was closer to the asylum than she was to safety. She didn't want to slim down her chances any more than she absolutely had to. There was only a few blocks left, any way. A few blocks to Arkham . . .

It was her big chance, it really was. She couldn't actually afford to lose it, not over a few homeless thugs. She'd never be presented with something like this again. People probably would have killed for an opportunity such as this, were the action deemed socially acceptable. In fact, she was sure that there were a few inmates there that _had_. If she came back from Arkham successfully, then . . .just imagine the fame would hole . . .not only at the university, but all over the state . . . the country . . . maybe even across the border! No, if she came out of Arkham having successfully profiled and assessed some of the world's most notorious criminals, then she would be renowned within the international community. It was a daunting task, for sure, but she was convinced that she would be able to take it on, given a few months of hard work.

She could work this opportunity to the bone, stay up all night if she had to! The excitement boiled up in her chest as she realized the potential that her situation held. Dr. White would be so pleased. He would give her name to every psychologist and university professor he knew . . . it would be so easy for her to obtain her doctorate . . . she could have _any_ career that she wanted. Any job . . . in any country! Just imagine . . . _France_!

No, this was something that Harleen would definitely have to see through to the end.

* * *

The place was dark, it was dingy, and it was desolate.

It was the place any person would think of putting and keeping the most deranged criminals for the rest of their miserable lives. It was only ironic that they would take any self-respecting criminal psychologist down with them.

Harleen's footsteps echoed loudly through the stone halls as she was led down to the faculty's area. She passed a series of heavy doors with serious-looking locks on them, no doubt leading to the cells of the criminally insane. Her heart rate accelerated at the thought of the kind of people that must have been locked away behind those doors; how intriguing each of their minds must have been. This was going to be far too exciting for her.

As she walked down the endless hall along the uneven concrete floor, she tried to stay focused on keeping her demeanour professional; aloof and inexpressive as she tended to project in such situations. Her eyes, however, she could not keep still. There was nothing in this dark, bland hall to be particularly interested in, but rather the experience itself, she somehow found quite invigorating. The stone that made up the walls on either side of her had likely once been smooth, but now they were cracked and jagged. Rough from the years of wear and neglect, bits had fallen off of individual bricks, and still remained on the ground. Above her, old, rusted pipes ran exposed along the ceiling, dripping in some places, almost bursting in others. At regular intervals, small incandescent light bulbs has been installed, each of them covered by a small wire cage to keep protected from the crazed inmates. Many of them were burnt out, or soon to do so; no one had bothered to change them, giving the hall a very sickly atmosphere.

She forced herself to suppress the frequent shivers that threatened to run violently down her spine as the remainder of the hall was soon covered. She and her escort arrived at door situated at the end, not unlike the ones that they had been passing. The guard that was with her swiped his card through the hefty lock, causing the lights to flash and the device to beep. A moment later, he swung the large door open, granting her access to the room.

When she had been told that she was to be meeting her supervisor in the main faculty lounge, she had been expecting a bustling atmosphere complete with plump armchairs and sofas, perhaps even a fireplace at the back wall, with a busy coffee machine at the kitchenette. What she wasn't expecting . . . was this.

There were only two windows, one on either side of the inappropriately large room. A few tables graced the scene, folding and plain, complete with matching aluminum chairs that folded up as well. Most of them were broken. There was an old and rusted radiator at the far window, which appeared to be the only source of the all too absent heat in the room. She _did_ manage to spot a coffee maker – sitting atop a sorry looking excuse of a side table – but it appeared _far_ too unsanitary to even _think_ of brewing coffee in. She made a mental note of stopping at the campus coffee shop on her way over from now on.

As far as Harleen could see, there were only two other people in the room with her – the guard having recently left - a small rat-like man bent over his laptop at one of the folding tables, and a woman, hunched over by the window, staring at some charts in one hand, sipping at a cup of coffee with the other. Harleen shuddered.

"You must be Harleen!" a loud, female voice called out across the room.

The petite blonde jumped noticeably, turning to find the source of the voice. A woman had walked in from a door at the far end of the room. She was taller than Harleen, but only by a couple of inches. Her hair was dark, cut off at her jaw, with straight-cut bangs framing her face. Her eyes were narrow, and her face was slightly pointed. Her features had a slight Asian feel to them, but not quite defined as such. Her stride was powerful, and exuded absolute confidence. Her clothes and hair were neat and perfect, down to the last detail. One hand held a clipboard and file to her chest, the other swung calculated at her side. This woman was the image of perfection.

"Uh . . . yes, that's me." Harleen replied gingerly, shaken slightly by this woman's sudden appearance.

The woman stopped a pace from her, standing stiff as a board, her free hand extended toward the small blonde. "My name is Anne Jarvis," the woman introduced herself as they shook hands, "_Doctor_ Anne Jarvis. I will be your primary supervisor during your stay here. Any questions or concerns, you come straight to me, okay?" She ended with what looked like a forced smile and words that tried to hold some warmth, but Harleen knew better. This woman was just as stoic as her appearance.

Anne then turned to the clipboard she held in her hand, taking something and holding it out toward Harleen. She looked down to the woman's outstretched hand, seeing a set of laminated cards, held together by a plain lanyard. Harleen gazed back up at Anne questioningly.

"These are your Arkham Asylum Identification Cards and limited access key cards." Anne told her, "You can in and out of this room, on into the office halls, as well as into lower security prisoner cells."

Harleen accepted the set with a small 'Thank you', noticing that her picture was the same as the one that was used for her university identification card. She noticed something else as well, something that wasn't quite right.

"Excuse me . . ." Harleen said hesitantly, "It says '_Doctor_ Harleen Quinzel'. I think there's a typo here, I haven't gotten my doctorate, yet." She added that extra 'yet' on for her own personal kicks.

Anne didn't seem surprised by this new information. "It's precautionary," she explained, "This asylum is home to some of the most twisted, and fatally genius criminals this world has to offer. Some of them, you will be working with personally. If _any_ of them figure out that you are an intern, then you will undoubtedly be targeted by one or more of them. They _enjoy_ picking apart unguarded minds. Its all a game to them. If they think that you are an experienced professional, you are less likely to be targeted or attacked. The fact that you are new puts you at risk enough already. Not to mention your true inexperience leaves you vulnerable as well."

Harleen didn't respond. She didn't say anything, she didn't move, hell, she didn't even advert her gaze in the slightest. Anne Jarvis' words had hit her deep. Even still, after her renowned paper, pedestal graduate achievement, and praised internship, there were still people who continued to treat her like some sort of . . . _child_. No one would submit to finally take her seriously. She had poured so much into getting to where she currently was, and still, the only thing part of her that anyone would actually relent to see, was the young, blonde, gymnast, as opposed to the dedicated psychology student that she really was. It infuriated her, beyond all real sense of the word. There was nothing more she wanted to do at that point than to lash out at Anne Jarvis, and show who really was vulnerable and who was not.

She kept her glare lowered, however, as to avoid arousing suspicion in her newly appointed superior. It would not last long, though, oh no . . . Before long, Harleen Quinzel _would_ show these . . . _psychologists_ that she was more than capable of handling these loons. She would show them how superior she was to _them_. When she became internationally renowned and requested by every asylum, seminar and university there was, then they would know . . . She was not inexperienced or naïve.

Anne Jarvis cleared her throat impatiently and Harleen quickly turned her attention to her once more. "If you'll just place your things over there," – she pointed to a series of lockers and cubbies – "There is one open and available for you. We can get started, and I can show you around some of Arkham's facilities."

* * *

"So, can I ask you if you managed to make it here alright?" Anne Jarvis asked her as the two of them walked down one of Arkham's numerous halls. Two security guards trailed them, only a few feet behind, just in case they were needed.

Harleen nodded. "Well, fine enough," she admitted hesitantly, "No cab driver in Gotham seems to be willing to drive me all the way up, though."

To her dismay, Anne only laughed. "Yes, well, the Narrows can be an intimidating place even during the day-" she cut her own speech off as she turned to Harleen with a look of utter surprise on her face, "Good lord! Don't tell me you _walked_."

The blonde shrugged non-chalantly, as if she had made the route regularly. "I didn't really have any other alternative."

Her supervisor chuckled quietly, then, as if the thought of a short little blonde girl like her had actually traversed the desolate streets of the Narrows entirely on her own. "You live in the university dorms, right?"

"Yup."

"I can pick you up the mornings you work, if you want." Anne offered her, "I don't live far from your campus, and it's much safer than walking through the Narrows every morning."

Harleen smiled at this sudden offer, strangely grateful towards her new superior. "Thanks, that'll be great."

She continued to follow her superior in silence, through the crowded, dingy halls of Arkham. The four pairs of footsteps echoed eerily, and Harleen couldn't help but feel unnerved by what Anne might have been leading her to. It only took them a few minutes longer to reach a tightly sealed door – two floors up from where they had originally started.

"This is one of the areas that you currently have access too, and it is the highest level of security that you have full, _independent_ access to." Anne explained as she played with the locks, showing Harleen how they worked as she did so. "Anything lower than this security level, you have complete access too on your own. Anything higher than this level, you're gonna need me there, too."

She did her best to ignore Anne's condescending smile, and instead, followed her through the newly opened doorway. Her eyes darted around excitedly, ecstatic to finally bear witness to the holding cells of Arkham. The ceilings here were higher than the ones in the tunnel they'd just left, and the walkway extended far down, she could see where it turned, down to another series of prisoner cells. It was twice as wide as the last hallway as well. The lighting in here was dim as well, the pipes were just as exposed, the walls just as worn and the floors just as uneven.

The largest change of all – to her – was also what happened to frighten her the most.

The prisoners were not kept on cells that were protected but steel bars or anything of the sort. Instead, each cell, itself, was separated by a thick wall of stone, about three or four feet thick. The cells themselves were large enough to keep a person comfortable enough, each one equip with a twin cot, sink, table and toilet. The only thing separating the inmates from them, however; a single pane of glass.

Harleen couldn't help but worry over this as she followed Anne down the walkway. "Is it . . .safe, to keep them like this?" she asked nervously, "I mean, behind _glass_."

The elder woman smirked. "There is no need to be alarmed. The glass is treated and enforced with titanium. As well, every pane is connected to a circuit of fifty-thousand volts, which anyone in the guard tower can turn on at slightest sign of trouble. There is a warning alarm accompanied by it, so if you hear it . . . make sure you're not touching the glass."

She nodded in understanding as she continued to gaze around, observing the individual inmates as she went along. These ones were all male, she noticed, all dressed in identical, light blue, prison tunics and trousers; not orange as she had previously imagined.

"Do not fool yourself, Dr. Quinzel, each of these men are dangerous and witty in their own, individual ways. Most of the ones you see here are generally rehabilitated to a point, hence, the lower security." Anne Jarvis told her as they strolled along, "Our more dangerous patients, we keep on our subterranean levels, locked up at all times. Their cells each have individual doors, not unlike the one we took to get here. Those locks, however, are far more complicated, and you will _not_ have access to them." She was silent a moment before turning to Harleen. "Not even I do."

Harleen's brow furrowed. "Then who does?"

"Only Dr. Miller and a couple of his associates do."

The inmates, Harleen noticed, were, for the most part, completely inactive. Almost none of them moved, walked around . . . she wasn't even sure if a few of them were alive, given their deep state of unconsciousness. Far more of them, on a more dismal note, simply sat there, quietly in their cells . . . staring. The expressions were all blank, but they all exuded pure insanity. Their leering sent noticeable shivers down Harleen's spine, and she hoped desperately that no one had noticed.

"Why did you want to intern at Arkham anyway?" Dr. Jarvis' voice cut through the thick, stale air.

It took Harleen a moment to even process the question, let alone answer it. "Well . . . undoubtedly, any dedicated psychology student would want to intern at the most renowned facility in the area." She chose her words carefully, professionally, "I am just lucky to have had Arkham . . . well, erm, nearby."

She noticed, then, how Anne's face tensed at her words, as if she were trying to stop herself from ginning inappropriately. "Oh? And the fact that every intern we've had, has gone on to greater and grander things, has almost nothing to do with it?" There was a teasing note in her voice. Harleen figured that this woman could not have been all bad.

A smile graced the blonde's face. "I can't help it if-"

They had almost reached the end of the hall, passing by the second to last cell until the turn. Harleen's words were caught in her throat, as she happened to gaze at the prisoner inside. Never in her life had she expected to see _him_ here. Never. It was a complete shock to her, even her feet were stunned to the ground beneath them. She didn't even noticed how Anne had stopped beside her, something of a smug grin on her face. It all melted away at the sight of this one man. . .

The Joker.

Just behind the thin pane of glass, he sat there, unmoving, on the small asylum cot. His eyes were blank as they stared ahead into nothing, his posture slouched and his head hanging. His face was bland; menacing as always, but bland. She almost found it hard to recognize his all too famous face without his trademark 'war paint'. The scars stemming from either side of his face gave it away though, everyone knew about _them_. His fingers were locked loosely together, as if he were deep in thought, as his elbows rested gently on his spread knees. It was a strange sight, such a notorious criminal, sitting there innocently – yet intensely unnerving – in the same light blue garb all of the other prisoners donned. His hair was still dyed the dirty green-ish color, hanging around his face, as it did in all the newspaper photos had depicted. His unmoving stance was made even more eerie by the dim lighting in his cell, as if he were there, plotting the demise of the people who dare imprisoned him.

Harleen struggled for words as she opened her mouth to speak. "I – I thought. . . "

"Dr. Miller wishes to study his habits. Thoroughly, so he had him brought up here." Anne answered, instantly knowing the questions that she was no doubt bursting with, "Such a thing is nearly impossible when a prisoner is kept in the high security cell."

Harleen tore her gaze away from the immobile Joker, looking intensely at Anne. "Is that such a good idea?! I mean-" she was horrified at the thought of such a dangerous man in such a low security setting.

Anne nodded in an assuring manner. "Don't worry, he has been mildly sedated. It keeps him from being a complete danger to the doctors who want to examine him." She explained, "It's relatively common. Most of our high class criminals, we try to keep sedated anyway . . . as a safety precaution."

The shock itself, for the most part, had faded from Harleen's system. The uncontrollable danger, however, was a whole other story. Regardless, she nodded, calming herself, brushing her loose hair neatly behind her ear.

Anne then turned to continue on. "Come on, we have a lot more to cover." She said as her footsteps continued on.

Taking another deep breath in, Harleen steadied herself, ready to continue with her supervisor. She turned her head, back towards the Joker's cell. She wanted to glance at him one last time, her intrigue unknowingly caught by him.

His eyes stared into hers, mere inches away. The dark orbs like daggers as they pierced into what seemed like her very soul, drenching her into a frozen pool of fear. The malice emanated from him like nothing else. It melted everything else away; her surroundings, the glass, her thoughts . . . everything except pure, unadulterated, primal fear. The permanent smile on his face teased her, taunted her, made light of her sudden despair. She would have been angry, had she not been paralysed internally by his menacing gaze.

It had only been a second that she had been frozen the spot, eyes wide and muscles seized, but in that one second, her entire world had crumble away under the Joker's crippling stare. She cried out in shock, and, in her desperate attempt to flee, fell backwards, as her leg muscles refused to move. She kept her eyes on him, even still, and noticed that his lips had curled upward into something of a smirk, as though he found it amusing that she was so easily frightened.

Harleen's chest heaved, as she lay on the ground, propped up by her hands weakly. She turned to Anne, who had stopped to see what had happened. "I thought you said he was sedated!" Harleen cried out, the fear evident in her broken voice.

* * *

_- - Why did they kill Harvey Two-Face? Oh why oh why oh why?!_

_- k a t_


	4. Chapter Three

_- - Before we get started, I just want to say how SORRY I am for taking like TWO FUCKING MONTHS to update here. There was SOME personal shit, but that was all thankfully resolved with haste. Then, school hit, and it being my first year of COLLEGE after sitting on my ASS doing NOTHING for god only knows HOW LONG, I am swamped. Getting this bit finished and out of the way is only the result of a four pack of REDBULL and three ALLNIGHTERS, with nothing left to do until class in like . . . EIGHTEEN hours . . . so, ya. As well, this is also not where I wanted to end this chapter, but I figure TWO MONTHS LATER and nothing to show was pushing it a bit. So, enjoy. _

_- - - I don't LIKE this chapter. I'm gonna revamp it when I have time. Infact, I'm gonna revamp chapters one and two as well when I get an extra spare minute. Maybe I'll do it in the next EIGHTEEN hours if I don't crash first. HAHA._

_**.warnings.** Darkness, language, sexual reference and some sexuality. There's a reason this fic is M, and its only gonna keep getting worse._

_**.disclaimers. **I don't own anything, I really don't. DC comics, Nolan's universe, same old same old. _

* * *

**A Harlequin Romance**

**Chapter Three**

It had almost been a week since Harleen Quinzel had started her internship at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. A week since she had started down her long road to success. A week since she promised herself that she would let nothing stand in the way of achieving what she wanted the most.

It was also a week since she had met the Joker.

The experience itself had been one that she was not sure she could believe had actually happened, as if it were some far-fetched dream . . . or frightening nightmare. It had not seemed feasible in her mind that she had actually come face to face – quite literally – with a criminal of his ranking and actually live to tell the tale. It wasn't a tale she was telling, though.

She had thought that the experience would dull down quickly, with the help of a stiff drink and a nice relaxing bath at home. However, much to her dismay, it had, ultimately, not. That very night – despite being thoroughly exhausted – the man's face invaded her dreams, turning what should have been a well-deserved rest, into a perverse fantasy, infested and dominated by an intense trepidation.

That gaze . . . it remained burned into her mind's eye like some sort of mental tattoo. It was the last image she had of him, from that one meeting. His eyes burning into her very soul, as she walked away, refusing to buckle under his crippling malice. And it haunted her still. Every day, every hour, for the past week . . . she had his image caught in her mind, reminding her of his presence, his ability of what he could do to her . . .

The Joker's re-admittance into Arkham had not been completely ignored either. Evidently, there were far more people employed at Arkham than Harleen had first been led to believe, and absolutely _everyone_ was buzzing about this latest development. As well as Scott Miller's endeavour to treat him. It wasn't as if such a thing hadn't been attempted before, however, no attempt had _ever_ been met with success. Not even remotely. In many cases, the Joker had claimed even _more _victims through their efforts to analyse him.

No matter where Harleen went at Arkham, she would always hear _something_ about the work that Dr. Miller had been doing. How, so far, he had been found relatively resistant to the Joker's games, even though the Joker had once again proven himself more than resistant to his.

Harleen, on the other hand, had been hard at work, analysing and assessing the mental state of lower security inmates. In all reality of the sense, it really was a generally easy assignment. Many of those she worked with were usually text book cases of some mental dysfunction. She knew it was only to get her accustomed to that particular line of work, but it _did_ bother her the way that the other Arkham psychiatric employees continued to look down on her in that patronizing way. Even if she currently wasthe only intern, it didn't change the fact that she only had one year – and an academic year at that – to impress the entire local psychiatric community. She certainly was _not_ going to achieve that by working with low class crooks, who had voices telling them to be a general nuisance to society.

Patients like Willard Harris, were not going to get her anywhere.

The man she was currently in session with, stared vacantly at the table between them. Harleen sat there, thinking of some profound way to prove her worth through this petty crook, even though she knew there was no real way to do so. He was nothing more than a basic paranoid schizophrenic. She knew that the moment she had started to talk to him, and yet, she _still_ had to continue her assessment on the patient's state of mind.

He had performed an armed robbery on a small grocery store owned by and elderly couple who had immigrated from the orient some years ago. For that, he would have been likely only been placed into the hands of Gotham County or given a probationary period. However, afterwards, he had continued to torch the place, subsequently burning the couple's above store apartment to the ground as well. No one was actually hurt in the process, but the crime had obviously called out for psychiatric assessment and treatment. No one had questioned his placement into Arkham.

Identifying such diseases in simple cases such as these were still going to get her no where in this career. She had only one year to achieve all that she wanted, and she wanted to achieve _a lot_. She needed harder subjects, people with more . . . _intense_ symptoms and afflictions.

The face that had been haunting her for the past week, flashed once again through her mind's eye, and this time . . . Harleen actually smiled at the development. She knew what she had to do, and she knew that she would let nothing stand in her way.

* * *

"I hear that you are making some progress with you patients, Miss Quinzel," Scott Miller's words were kind, sincere, encouraging . . . and more over, far too syrupy.

Harleen smiled graciously at his words, taking a few more strides, deeper into his office, before stopping at the chair before his desk. "I feel that I am, Dr. Miller," she replied with as must confidence as she could muster convincingly, "As you can see, I _have_ accurately assessed and diagnosed _at_ _least_ a half a dozen inmates." She gestured to the file on the desk in front of him.

Dr. Miller only nodded. "Yes, Harleen, I am quite aware of your work," he told her, "I might not be you supervisor, but I am the head of Arkham Psychiatric –"

"Then you should also know that these cases are not a big enough challenge for me. There are so many things that I have yet to achieve here, and at this rate, there is no _way_ that I can accomplish it all before my internship is over!" she interrupted him, a certain panic in her voice, only after realizing the consequence her words could bring. Slightly horrified, she stayed silent and still, studying Scott Miller, trying to judge his reaction.

He drew in a deep breath, and sighed. "I admire you passion for the field, Harleen, I really do," he told her. She stiffened at his words, watching carefully, as he took off his glasses and placed them on his desk before folding his hands neatly in front of him. "However, I am wondering as to whether or not you have failed to take this up with Dr. Jarvis. She _is_ you active supervisor after all."

Harleen almost had to stop herself from breathing a sigh of relief. Instead, she nodded in an acknowledging and calculative manner. "I _have_ mentioned it. But, I'm afraid that Dr. Jarvis doesn't quite understand the notions I put forward about my ambitions here," she explained carefully, "Or rather . . . she doesn't _want_ to understand my ambitions here. I'm not blaming her or anything, its just that . . . I think the fact that I am an _intern_ rather . . . _blinds_ her view of the success I could make here."

A small smile graced Scott Millers lips. It was almost condescending in its own attitude, but she ignored it for her own sake. "Oh? And just what _was_ it you were hoping to accomplish here at Arkham?" he inquired with a lofty air.

She bit her lip, to keep her appearance as humble as she could, giving a slight shrug for added effect. If she was going to pull this off, that meant not coming across too strongly. "Like I said, Dr. Miller, I'm seeking a bigger challenge," she told him, keeping strong eye contact, "I was even hoping for maybe . . . to work with a higher class of criminal, you know." She paused to study his response. It was wary, but not unfavourable. She went on. "Someone with a more . . . intriguing mind, someone with more . . . _demanding_ symptoms."

Scott Miller sighed, almost in defeat, as he sat there silently, mulling over her words. A moment passed, and he turned his gaze back to her once more. "What, if might ask, did you have in mind, Miss Quinzel?" he asked then, sounding defeated and tired.

Again, Harleen bit her lip, trying to muster her courage to answer him honestly. "Well, I was really thinking that someone like . . . the Joker -"

"Harleen-"

She wasn't going to stop now, not while she still had his attention. "In fact, the Joker _himself_ would be even _better_-"

"I really don't think its a good idea-"

"If I only _sat_ in on a session with him, though," Harleen persisted, determined to get him to consider the proposition. Agreeing to it would be even better. "If I sat in on one of _your_ sessions, Dr. Miller . . ."

Even though she had finished speaking, Scott Miller remained utterly silent. He stared into some far of distance of the office floor, contemplating her words, and everything that they might have meant. He began shaking his head, after a few moments had passed.

"I am not comfortable with the idea, Harleen," he admitted, looking up at her, "The man is not only insane, but he's genius as well. He's turned better psychiatric workers against themselves, ones far more experience than yourself. A man like him could prey on you without you even knowing it. An intern would be far too easy for him to manipulate and play with."

Harleen was silent then. She knew that at this point, there was no way that she could find a feasible way to convince him to let her in on one of his sessions. She sighed, running a defeated hand through her loose hair as she placed a hand on the chair beside her, leaning most of her weight on it. She looked back at Scott Miller, knowing that she had to do something to prevent this opportunity from slipping through her hands.

"You know the Joker won't be able to," she said to him then as if it were obvious, her words purposely sweeter, more girlish, "Not with a man as smart as you there, Scott." She used his first name on purpose, hoping that she would get the desired effect.

He gazed at her curiously, suddenly perking up when he heard her use his first name. He cleared his throat, professionally, and cautiously stood up, staring her hard in the eye. "Harleen, I _really_ - "

"You know," she interrupted him once again, sticking her hip out just a slight bit more, and moving her arm to better bring attention to her chest. Men were so easily manipulated. "I never let anyone know it, but what happened with Guy . . . it really _did_ hit me hard. I mean . . . the only way I could even avoid being _completely_ devastated by his death . . . it really was by throwing myself so entirely into my work."

Scott Miller closed his eyes momentarily and nodded solemnly. "Yes, Dr. White _did_ tell me about your predicament earlier on. I must say that I am sorry to hear that –"

"Then you would know how important it is for me to succeed!" she tried her best to throw a little hysteria into her voice. She wanted – no, she _needed_ – to sound desperate . . . needy even. Her spirit fell a little when she saw that Scott Miller was still unwilling to fold.

He adjusted himself, however. Shifting his weight, in what appeared to be an uncomfortable manner, he drew in a deep breath and tried again. "Believe me," he started, "There is nothing more I would like for you than to succeed in this field. But this is honestly _not_ the best way to go about it."

Harleen's face fell instantly. Her eyes raked the floor, thinking desperately of a way to convince him. She didn't feel proud of what she had come up with, but if it was the only way to get what she wanted. . .

Her eyes darted back up to Scott Miller's face, surprising him with the intensity of her gaze. "It hardened me - what happened with him . . . I never wanted anyone to know how much it hurt me, so I never let them in . . ." the bluff was far too easy for her to convey, "My friends, my family . . . they all gave up on me after a while . . . Right when I needed someone the most."

The change in his demeanour was very slight, but Harleen noticed it nonetheless. His expression changed, his entire form shifted, pondering her current motives. Wanted them to be everything he hoped them to be. She forced herself to go on, not wanting her nerve to fail, or her motivation to disappoint.

She let her eyes un-focus, staring far off into the floor, still noticing how Scott Miller seemed to continue to tense his muscles. "Men became unimportant to me . . ." she let the sentence trail off. It sounded hollow, devoid of any emotion, like a ghost's story. She smiled internally, proud of her meagre acting skills. "I'd lost the man who had been my _everything_ . . . _of_ _course_ I wasn't going to pay any attention to the other guys." Her voice had elevated an octave higher, intentionally of course. "You'd _think_ that they would understand . . . but they don't!"

Harleen had been so lost within her own exaggerated story, that she had not even noticed how Scott Miller had stepped forward, stopping only a few feet from her. She jumped when she looked up to see him standing so close to her, not thinking that he would dare be so bold. He'd struck her as a more reserved type, scrutinizing each situation down to the last painful detail before coming to a conclusion; like the acclaimed professional he was.

"The young can be so very naïve, Harleen," he told her, his voice low, his gaze burning into her, "But not you . . . No . . . You are so beyond your peers . . ."

She had almost lost herself in his words, his husky voice. It took her by surprise. She'd never thought that she would be able to convince him so easily and so thoroughly in this manner. She re-gathered herself, turning the same forcible gaze back at him. "They don't bother with me anymore," she went on, weakly, vulnerably, "None of the guys pay any attention to me anymore, none of my family, my friends . . . . They've all but left me behind . . . I feel so . . . _alone_ now . . . It's hard to live with-"

Her words broke off abruptly as his lips crushed into hers. It caught her by surprise. She hadn't expected her tricks to be so effective so quickly. Part of her congratulated herself, while another part of her felt like recoiling.

Scott Miller's mouth was hard and demanding against hers, to the point of being obnoxious. She forced her lips to be pliant and willing under his, parting her lips when she felt his probing tongue demand entrance. She forced the encouraging response she gave him, pushing her tongue against his, moving her body so deliciously against his. She could already feel the beginnings of his arousal pushing against the small of her belly, as his hands eagerly caressed her through her blouse.

Harleen had never really thought herself one to seduce a man to further herself in the world. She'd always thought herself and her actions to be above that. Of course, she had never ignored her more womanly assets when aspiring . . . whenever it helped her. Never before, though, had she ever pushed herself to go as far as she was now going. It unnerved her, confused her . . . even _frightened_ her. To go to such lengths – so desperately – to achieve something. She wanted this, _truly_ needed this.

Her body shifted, uncomfortably in her mind, but likely in pleasure to him, as his hands again began moving, kneading her torso roughly as his hans made their way lower. They stopped at her hips, pulling her closer to him, trying to her to grind against his fully formed hardness. She didn't.

She gasped into his mouth suddenly, his hands abruptly on her posterior, grabbing roughly, crushing his hips to hers. The instinct she felt to push him away was strong, but she fought it. He gruffly manoeuvred her to the wall, pinning her in plase with his body as his hands were free to explore her body once more. She felt his hands tearing at her blouse, and any feeling she had retained in her body, she quickly banished away.

* * *

_- - Batman's a ninja and Qui Gon Ginn is trying to destroy the world!! Hahahahaha. . . . _

_- k a t_


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